Nocnitsa
by Jenksel
Summary: The time Jenkins had to jump off of the Hindenburg. Takes place right after"Fangs of Death".


_Panic and fear hung so heavily in the air that it could almost be cut with a knife. Glass from the windows shattered and littered the floor like a carpet. Thick, choking black smoke filled the promenade, along with a blistering heat that seemed to suck the oxygen from his lungs. Girders groaned and shrieked in agony above their heads as they collapsed in the inferno. People ran helter-skelter, screaming, crying, shouting the names of loved ones, praying. They packed themselves frantically along the length of the starboard viewing platform, but there was no safe escape route here. They then looked around wildly for another exit, but there was none. They were all trapped—trapped between certain death by fire and asphyxiation on one side and probable death by a 200 foot plummet to the unforgiving tarmac below. Their lifespans now measuring in seconds, many passengers were paralyzed by sheer panic and terror. Some, their minds unable to process or accept what was happening, simply stood quietly and stared with glazed eyes. Others wailed in terror or wept with rage at not being able to do anything other than die. Others took the only chance at life they had been given. They climbed into the broken, jagged frames of the viewing windows and jumped. Seconds behind them followed the burning wreckage of the pride of Nazi Germany, the passenger airship LZ-129 Hindenburg…_

Jenkins shot bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat and screaming. For a few dazed seconds, all he could see was darkness, and he thought he was still on board a smoke-filled promenade 80 years ago. Soon, however, as the panic and fear dissipated, he realized that he was not on board the Hindenburg now, but safe and sound in his own bed in the Library. It had only been a nightmare.

As his pounding heart and ragged breathing returned to their normal rates, he raked his shaking hands though his sweat-dampened hair. It had been a very long time since he had last dreamed about that awful night. Perhaps his and Colonel Baird's fall over the cliff-face in Canada had triggered it. It had certainly brought the dreadful memory back to him at that time—the flying-like feeling of free-fall through the air, followed almost immediately by the sound of cracking bones and the blinding pain as he landed on the hard, rocky ground. Of course, the fall in Canada didn't really compare to the one in 1937. Canada didn't even come close to New Jersey.

He desperately needed a cup of tea. He threw back the covers, slid into his slippers and robe, and made his way to the kitchen. As the kettle heated up on the stove, he spooned several scoops of tea into a teapot, not bothering to temper it first as he usually did. It was his own blend of peppermint, chamomile and valerian that he had created to help him get to sleep, and he hoped it would work tonight. He stood staring blankly at the teapot, his mind still halfway on the other side of the country and 80 years in the past when the sharp shriek of the kettle dragged him back to the Library.

He poured the hot water into the teapot and wrapped it in a thick kitchen towel to keep it hot as the tea steeped. He busied himself with finding a cup and saucer, a spoon, then rummaged around in a cupboard for the jar of chestnut flower honey that he was his favorite. The familiar actions soothed him. When the tea was ready, he poured it into the cup and stirred in a fat teaspoon of the honey. He noticed that his hands still shook slightly as he held the saucer and stirred.

He settled in at the kitchen table and took a deep breath. He had witnessed and experienced some truly horrifying things in his 1,500-plus years on this earth, but that rainy spring night in May, 1937 was certainly one of the worst. He was sorry now that he had talked Charlene into booking him passage to America on the airship instead of the steamship that Library staff usually used. But he had been intrigued by the idea of this new 'modern' mode of transportation, and he wanted to experience it for himself, especially on his first trip in many years to the United States. He had never flown before, and it had been an absolutely fascinating and exhilarating experience for the Caretaker.

The passage across the Atlantic had been smooth and uneventful, even relaxing, for the normally Library-bound Jenkins. Most of the passengers had been German, of course, but he spoke fluent German so that was not a problem. He had even struck up a bit of a friendship with an older woman, a widow by the name of Frau Miltz who was also traveling alone to the US. She was going to visit family and meet her first grandchild. She had been nearing 70 years old at the time, but she was still a strikingly beautiful woman, and Jenkins was happy to act as her escort during the trip. They dined together every evening, walked along the promenades and chatted, usually ending up in the lounge for a nightcap and sometimes a dance or two. Several passengers remarked on what a handsome couple they made. One night there was a raucous party in the bar, and she managed to coax the normally reticent man into attending. They both got drunk on old-fashioneds and danced till nearly dawn. When he walked her back to her cabin he was still tipsy, and he impulsively kissed her. She had responded in kind, and things might have gone much further, if they had not been interrupted by a cabin boy rushing to report for morning duty.

Jenkins sipped his tea as he remembered the woman. He hadn't thought of her in decades; strange that he should do so now. He never learned her first name. They were together on the viewing platform, watching as the airship made its final approach to the airfield in Lakeside, New Jersey where they were to disembark. When the first explosion occurred they felt no more than a slight jarring sensation, and Jenkins had thought it was a normal part of the mooring procedure. A few seconds later, however, Frau Miltz fell on top of him as the stern fell precipitously and the bow lurched skyward, and acrid smoke began filling the passenger areas. Shouts of 'fire!' began to be heard, and confusion and panic soon took hold of the passengers and even some of the crew.

His stomach full of cold dread, he scrambled to his feet and pulled her up by the hand. He meant to stay with her, but the press of panicking passengers pulled her hand from his and swept her away. He tried to follow, bellowing her name, but she was gone. As the framing above began to buckle, the glass in the windows shattered. Looking out, Jenkins saw the ground rushing towards them. He cast one last anguished look back, then pulled his tall frame through the opening and flung himself as far out and away from the dying ship as he could.

Jenkins shuddered involuntarily as recalled striking the ground. He was never sure how far he had fallen. Somehow he had remained conscious, so it must not have been too far. He remembered the sickening sound of his skull cracking upon striking the pavement. He remembered feeling terrible pain all over his body. He remembered trying to get up, but not being able to move. He remembered the stench of smoke and charred flesh. He knew that he was beneath the flaming airship, that it would land on top of him. He remembered wondering if this is what would finally end his life, and he remembered feeling oddly at peace with that idea.

Then he felt the hands of a ground crewman grab him tightly under his broken arms and dragging him with superhuman strength away from the disaster. Burning pieces of debris and red-hot pieces of metal rained down around them, yet miraculously missed them. The crewman kept running, dragging the much bigger Caretaker as fast as he could to safety. He managed to get Jenkins out from underneath the massive inferno just before it crashed to the ground like a dying animal, but he couldn't get them away from the hellish heat fast enough before they both suffered severe burns all over their bodies.

Jenkins poured himself another cup of tea. The crewman died of his injuries, he later learned, much to his sorrow. He never learned what happened to Frau Miltz, but his gut told him she had died as well. The Library had sent the Guardian to remove him from the local hospital a few days later and bring him to New York, where the Librarian saw to it that Jenkins was cared for around the clock until he recovered. Even with the aid of magic and his immortality, it took many painful weeks for his injuries to heal. Several years later Jenkins viewed the now famous newsreel footage of the disaster for the first and only time, and was shocked by what he saw. He marveled that anyone else had managed to survive the conflagration at all.

Frau Miltz's grandchild would be over 80 years old by now; he wondered whatever became of it, what sort of life it had lead?

The experience deeply affected him psychologically—nowadays they called it "post-traumatic stress"—and he was aware that something inside of him, some part of him, DID die that day. He never returned to Europe. He never flew again. He still didn't like to leave the safety of the Library for any great length of time, though that was slowly changing now, thanks to the Librarians. For a while he was always smelling smoke where there was nothing burning, and open flames of any kind would send him running from the room hyperventilating. And there were the nightmares. Every night, for weeks on end. The Librarian grew concerned for Jenkins. Fearing the permanent manifestation of a 'nocnitsa'-the parasitic spirit attracted to those undergoing trauma and tormented its victims with nightmares-he had insisted on placing a stone with a naturally-worn hole in it over Jenkins's bed to drive it away and keep it from further feeding on the Caretaker's suffering. It hung there still. It had helped Jenkins to heal considerably, but that "spark" never returned. He suspected that it would never return. It was a very different Jenkins who ended up in America from the one who had boarded the Hindenburg in Germany.

The tea in the pot had long ago gone cold. Jenkins sat immobile, lost in his thoughts, empty teacup in his hands.

"Mr. Jenkins?"

Jenkins vaguely felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he blinked and jumped, dropping the teacup and saucer. They clattered into his lap before falling to the floor and shattering. He turned dazedly towards the sound of the tentative voice. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw the lovely face of Frau Miltz looking worriedly down at him, but then it faded. Cassandra stood next to him, her brow wrinkled in concern. "Miss Cillian, what are you doing here so early?"

"Early! Mr. Jenkins, it's almost 10:00 AM!" she said. "Are you OK, Mr. Jenkins? You don't look well; you're not sick, are you?"

"10:00 AM?" Jenkins looked down and saw the splintered china littering the tiled floor. He immediately knelt and began to pick up the larger pieces, putting on on an air of nonchalance. "I had no idea it was that late. I suppose I should stop gathering wool and get dressed—I have a great deal of work to do today."

He stood up and began briskly to clear away the other tea things. "So, Miss Cillian, what are your plans for the day?" he asked.

Cassandra was taken aback somewhat. "Um, nothing much, I suppose. I thought I would help you with any experiments you have going right now, if that's ok?"

"That would be delightful," he answered brightly.

 _Something's not right_ , Cassandra thought. "Are you sure you're all right, Mr. Jenkins?" she repeated.

He stopped bustling and looked her in the eyes. His voice was light, unconcerned, but his dark brown eyes were lifeless.

"Perfectly, Miss Cillian. I was merely lost in thought and simply lost track of the time. Thank you for your concern, but there's really no need for worry."

He pushed his chair back under the table and with a wan smile, he left without another word.


End file.
